Inopiae
by skybound2
Summary: Neria never felt like she was really lacking in the range of emotions available. That was, of course, until the moment she met him.


**Title**: Inopiae  
**Author**: **skybound2**  
**Characters**: Alistair/Fem!Elf-Mage PC (Neria Surana) (There needs to be more fic with these two!)  
**Word Count**: ~3300  
**Rating**: PG-13/T (Although, barely, if at all)  
**Summary**: "Never before in her life had she felt like she was really lacking in the range of emotions available, she had, after all, studied them with fervor, and had determined which ones seemed the most useful, and which were better off discarded. She believed herself well informed on the subject, and all the better for it. That was, of course, until the moment she met him."  
**Author's Note**: Implied spoilers throughout end-game. Originally posted over at "Swooping is Bad" on LJ.

**Inopiae**

It wasn't so much want on her part, as it was pure _need_. She needed him. In an all-encompassing, self-possessing sort of a way. She wished that wasn't the case, but as time trolled on, it became more and more apparent that what she felt was growing dangerously close to an obsession, and balancing all too precariously on an unhealthy ledge.

The worst of it all was that she really couldn't give a damn.

So many years she had spent, locked within the stone walls of the Circle Tower, with little hope of venturing further outside then Lake Calenhad. Instead, she had spent day after endless day, prowling through the vast stacks of the library, absorbing every little detail that she could. About magic. About Ferelden. About her own heritage – sorely lacking in source material as the library may have been. There had been little else to do in the Tower, aside from study. Granted, a great deal of that time she spent sneaking around with Jowan, getting into what trouble they could, just to break the monotony.

She supposed, that if she wanted to, she could force herself to see the early signs of Jowan's interest in blood magic, even back then. But, the truth was, that she absolutely couldn't. Perhaps that made her a bad friend...or, perhaps the fact that she turned him into Irving before he ever really had a chance to explain made her one. Regardless, the outcome was still the same.

He was her best friend, and in the end she really new nothing about him. Nor had she ever really cared to learn. It was an awakening experience.

The day of her Harrowing she had been as fully versed as she could ever hope to be, as untried as she was in real battle. She hadn't felt any sense of real worry going in, only a mild sense of relief. For once this was all over her life, her _real_ life, could surely begin.

Of course, she hadn't the foggiest idea what that meant at the time. She supposed she would eventually take on an apprentice or two of her own. Invest in some finer robes, and enjoy the privacy allotted to full Circle Magi. Thoughts of the Grey Wardens had never once entered her mind.

If pressed, she may have even admitted that she was looking forward to winding up the Templar Cullen a bit more, without the constant presence of the Harrowing hanging over her head. Perhaps that was why she approached him the way that she did, on her way to see the First Enchanter. She could still recall the blush that had stained his handsome cheeks when he had confessed to being present for her trial in the Fade, and his intended reason for being there. The words had flown out of her mouth before she could even think to bite them back, even though she knew that doing so was a bit cruel on her part. But truly, she had noticed the way he looked at her. And, more importantly (to her at least) she had taken notice of the responding twinge of sensations that she could feeling curling in her core whenever he did so.

He may have been a Templar, but she was a woman and far from blind; and while Templars may have been raised with Chantry ideals, Mages were not. All of the focus of their lifestyle-centered education had more-or-less amounted to: "Do what you want, with who you want. But keep it behind closed doors. And by Andraste! Do avoid becoming an abomination!" Which most of the young apprentices had taken at face value. Meaning, as long as they didn't lose control of their emotions enough to fall in love, they were free to do what they wished amongst themselves. A fact which most of them had exploited at one time or another during the course of their training.

It had seemed such an easy task at the Tower, not falling in love. She really had no experience with the emotion, afterall. Taken, as young as she was, from her family in the alienage. The bonds that she had formed while in the Circle, while very real, didn't seem to come close to the types of feelings associated with love that were described in the books. Certainly, she felt genuine affection and friendship for Jowan (for all the good that it did in the end). She knew that she trusted and respected the Circle Mages that she worked with on a daily basis, as well as her fellow apprentices. Some of which she could even admit to having felt stronger, more base draws towards. And of course, there was the school-girl fantasy crush that she indulged herself in with regards to Cullen. They were all a family, of sorts, within those closed off halls.

But still, none of that tentative childish exploration within the Tower's cold, and barren walls had prepared her for Alistair. Never before in her life had she felt like she was really lacking in the range of emotions available, she had, after all, studied them with fervor, and had determined which ones seemed the most useful, and which were better off discarded. She believed herself well informed on the subject, and all the better for it. That was, of course, until the moment she met him.

He had...enchanted her, for lack of a better word, (and yes, she was fully aware of the irony of that statement) from nearly the moment she had laid eyes on him. He was handsome, of that there was no doubt. Brave. But also self-deprecating and witty. And his cheeks had the most adorable habit of turning all possible shades of red at the slightest provocation. But he was still brass enough to say things that were, frankly, downright shocking at times.

Lamposts, indeed.

But the moments that he turned serious, those were the moments that truly spoke to the depths of her soul. So early on, she had been able to see that there was more to him then just the strong, Grey Warden. Or the nervous, teasing, Chantry boy. He held himself with all the grace of a noble, while having absolutely no qualms about being covered in the filth of the roads, or the spittle of one up-start Mabari looking for a game of 'fetch the Darkspawn arm!' (An absolute favorite in camp.)

They had fumbled through their first awkward moments of romance, with misplaced noses, and unsure hands. Any experiences she had had before him all seemed to be for naught when she was within reach of his arms. He made her tremble, and stammer. The way his fingers would dig ever so slightly into her hip as they kissed, made her toes curl. The little huffs of warm breath that he would exhale against the tip of her pointed ear when his mouth trailed up her neck, made her lips tingle.

As the days drew on, and they grew closer and closer to the moment that they both knew was inevitable between them, she found her mind, and gaze wandering towards the oddest things. Such as the way that his boots highlighted the curved muscles of his calves. Or how his armor would clang every so slightly as he'd rock from side-to-side whenever they had to stop and barter with a merchant (ever impatient). She'd find herself drawn to the way his Adam's apple would bob as he drank. Or the little happy, snuffing noses he'd make when he finely got to sit down with a good block of cheese (not at all dissimilar to a certain Mabari when presented with a fresh bone). There was nothing about him that didn't simply _mesmerize_ her.

And, lucky or not, she was still aware of herself enough to recognize this as a potentially very bad thing.

Then, one clear, moonless night, he presented her with the most exquisite red rose. The kiss he bestowed on her that night was one she knew would be seared into her memory ever more.

He did not refuse her offer that night.

In the weeks that followed, it seemed that nothing could phase her. The snide comments from Morrigan merely rolled off of her back (albeit, they seemed to unravel Alistair's composure just as much as before). Leliana seemed to think the whole thing was 'terribly romantic' and had even taken it upon herself to braid tiny trinkets, and new pieces of thread throughout the Elven Mage's hair. "A girl in love, should always feel beautiful, no? And if we can't possibly hope to keep those robes of yours clean of blood, then the least we can do is keep the worst of it out of your hair!" Neria could do nothing more then blush and submit to the other girl's attentions.

Sten had been characteristically quiet on the whole situation. Well, aside from one awkward conversation about whether or not Neria actually qualified as a woman or not. She was still debating whether or not a well-timed freezing hex (strictly at camp, of course) would be out of line.

Then came Redcliff. And the desperate struggle through the Mage's tower. She felt as if she had been stuck in the Fade for weeks by the time they had emerged. Weak and battle-weary. Her eyes were still blurred over, and she was acutely aware of her and Wynne's drastically depleted supply of Lyrium potions, when they had stumbled across Cullen at the foot of the Harrowing chamber stairs.

There was not a battle she had ever fought which prepared her for the truths like poison that had spilled from his mouth then, nor for his recriminations of her unwillingness to murder the remaining mages, sight unseen. Was this truly the same man that had cast her those shy, bashful looks from beneath his helm? That had stammered and sputtered before running off whenever she'd get too close? Had thoughts of a life with her truly tortured him so?

She wished that she had had more time or energy to focus on him, and all of the guilt and panic pouring forth from him in waves. But instead, she had bounded up the stairs, trying to put as much distance between her and the Templar's cage as she could. For now, she thought, she would just focus on saving Irving, and by doing so, rescuing Connor and Isolde, and eventually even the Arl. It meant so much to Alistair after all...

At the top of the stairs, she emerged, and walked into the waiting maw of death itself.

She spent the next few days in a haze. Barely aware of the world around her as she slowly drew inward, building a wall around her heart. Wynne had managed to heal her of all her physical wounds, but her heart and soul were torn from her failure at the Tower. With the bitter taste of her fellow mages deaths still on her tongue, she ventured off to Redcliff, determined to save at least _one_ innocent.

She left with Morrigan, Sten, and the ever loyal Mabari before the sun rose. Leaving an understanding Wynne and Leliana to explain where she had gone to a surely unsuspecting Alistair.

Things had gone progressively downhill from there.

The two of them were just beginning to mend the fissures that her multitude of failures (at least, as far as she could see it), and her unwillingness to discuss them, had caused, when an Elven Assassin stumbled into their lives.

Alistair, as wonderfully predictable as he was, had voiced his objection to her accepting the other elf into their midst. Just as predictable, was his backpedaling to her suggestion that he do the deed himself, if he was so certain that taking Zevran ('Zev' to his friends) was such a bad idea.

The whole situation had been like picking at the scab on a wound, until it just refused to heal.

Over time though, it seemed as if the addition of the new blood in the midst of their little hodge-podge group brought with it a mixture of levity like they had never known before, as well as a bit of (well-deserved) tension. His constant, and incorrigible flirtations with everyone at camp were easy enough to fend off with a well-placed barb, and not so tactless as to be without any sense of humor or decorum.

Wynne may have disagreed, of course. She seemed quite perturbed by Zevran's near constant reference to her bosom. And Alistair seemed to be constantly fighting a battle with himself to _not _strike at the assassin with his sword (ill advised as it would have been). But, Neria was quickly beginning to realize that you could never please everyone.

All in all though, having the other elf amongst them had seemed to have a lightening affect on the troop. Maker knew they needed it. And, if she wasn't mistaken, she had even caught the tail end of a discussion or two regarding certain...activities, between Morrigan and Sten.

That was a pairing that she never would have guessed, but when she ventured a thought on it, it actually made a bit of sense. Well, all except for that part about nuzzling. That was a bit disturbing truth be told. Although, not much more disturbing than the sight of Sten trying to go unnoticed whilst picking flowers along the side of the road...a fact of which Leliana was all too willing to share with the group.

None of this, however, was helping her in her plight with Alistair. No, not in the slightest. They were still...close. She supposed. In that way that they had been before he'd given her that damnable, beautiful flower. But the emotions between them were more strained now, then they had been before. The joviality that had bound them together, even in the face of so much death, was lacking now. Now, instead of witty banter keeping them up throughout the long hours of watch (which, in typical fashion, they still took together), it was mostly silence and contemplation.

She couldn't really blame him. After all, her failure (and subsequent decision) had lead directly to Isolde's death. And they had yet to find their way to the Urn of Andraste – and the chance of finding it seemed to be growing slimmer everyday, as they encountered more and more Darkspawn out on the roads throughout Ferelden.

She couldn't really blame him, but that didn't make the hurt ache any less.

"I...do you want to talk, about what happened?" His voice, quiet and cautious in the night, surprised her.

"Wha...what do you mean?" She hated the way her voice cracked when she spoke, but there was nothing to be done for it, it seemed. She brushed an errant lock of trinket-adorned red hair behind her ear as she lifted her hazel eyes to meet his, and was unable to suppress the thrill of pleasure that raced through her as she saw his eyes darken for just a moment with some unspoken desire.

The look in his eyes flickered quickly then to one of concern, and then annoyance, before finally settling on resignation. All in a mere moment, but each emotion threaded itself through him and into her, so that she felt them acutely as if they were her own. He let out a heavy sigh, turning his gaze from her, and staring off into the fire.

"I keep waiting for you talk to me about...about what happened." He raised his eyes to hers again at this, "at the Circle." Her small intake of breath at this comment went unnoticed by him, as he lowered his gaze once more, and flicked ideally at a speck of dirt on his knee. "I thought that if I, if I gave you some time, you might – broach the subject with me yourself. But, its been weeks now, and everyday I just feel you shutting me out more. And, if it was just that you suddenly found me terribly boring, I could understand." He flashed a smile at her, the one where just the corner of his mouth was tugged up. The one that never failed to make her legs go all jittery. (Which, really wasn't saying very much, considering that **most **of his smiles had that affect on her.) "Buuut, judging by the lovely blush in your cheeks, I get the feeling that that's not the case." His hand, free of his heavy gloves for once, reached up to gently grasp her chin and turn her downcast face towards his. "Neria...talk with me. Please?"

The sudden swell of tears in her eyes, surprised her as much as it did him. Before she realized what she was doing, she was spilling all of her fears and sorrows to him. For so long, she had tried to be stalwart. To remember her training and push all excess emotions to the side. (But the Magi were all gone now, save for a handful. So who was there really to judge her, aside form the former Templar kneeling by her side?) For once, for just a moment, she wanted to hand the burden over to someone else.

Just for once.

He stayed with her that night, curled warm and close. The scent of him (firewood, steel, and the subtle hint of cheese), made her nearly giddy with delight. When all of her tears had run out, and his arms were wrapped tightly around her, tucking her smaller body into the mold of his, she found herself feeling whole again for the first time since before they had ever ventured into Redcliff. The feeling was intoxicating. Empowering. Even the Archdemon seemed to know better than to invade their dreams that night.

She clung to that sense memory throughout the weeks, and battles that followed. Their easy banter returned finally. They began to cling to each other more often, stealing kisses in alcoves and behind trees at the close of battles; much to the chagrin, and entertainment, of their traveling companions.

Perhaps it was the taint of the Darkspawn, clawing its way inside her, but as they gained the support of first the Dalish, and then the Dwarves, she felt herself growing more and more acutely aware of an ending that she was not at all certain she could support.

Her mind kept racing back to the tower, and all the former occupants. Her one-time friends. The only family she'd ever known. All gone now. Because of her. Because of her failures, and her decisions. And her seeming inability to make the right ones, merely because she had a tendency to rush into things, unprepared. Consequences, and everyone else, be damned.

She could still see the face of Jowan, betrayed by her as he was, moments before revealing that he truly was a Blood Mage. And Cullen. Sweet, broken Cullen, who had, in his own way, actually _loved_ her. She kept coming back to the look on his face when he realized that she was real. The look of pure fear, and adoration, all rolled up into one heart-wrenching package, and she knew. She knew that no matter what, she would never be able to give Alistair up. Not to end the Blight. And not for the good of Ferelden. She had already given up too much to get to this point. Anything more would take away what was left of her soul.

And wasn't that always what the senior Magi at the tower had taught the apprentices they should avoid? Isn't that how the seeds for Abominations were sown?

Maker's Breath, but she was going to cling to this one thing with all her might. If she could save nothing else, she would save this.

It was with this singular thought in mind that she thrust out her hand to the once, still, and future Queen Anora and offered her unwavering support.

~End


End file.
